1. Introduction

Can individuals control the ways in which they are remembered? Achilles saw κλέος ἄφθιτον, ‘undying fame’, as a possible outcome of his own decisions; [1] Alexander undertook a complex campaign of self-promotion that was imitated by the Hellenistic monarchs [2] and was surpassed in scope and scale perhaps only by the efforts of the Roman emperor Augustus. [3] But while the Homeric world generally equated memorialization with oral recollection, often in song, [4] Alexander brought with him on his Eastern expedition not only poets (e.g. Curtius 8.5.7–8, Arrian 4.9.9), but also a designated historian, Callisthenes (FGH 124). By the later fourth century, [5] memory had gained historical context, [6] and historiography had become one of its many tools.

Alexander’s public program, which involved image-making across a wide variety of media and contexts, was both ambitious and potent, but it was not without precedent. By his time, there were many ways for an eminent individual to script (to borrow from Thucydides 1.22.4) both a presentation for the contemporary public and a story for the ages. Some of these ‘tools of memory,’ such as the commissioning of poetry, have their origins in the more distant past. Others, however, seem to have blossomed during the classical period. In the course of the fifth and earlier fourth centuries, individual historical responsibility and accomplishment gradually received greater acknowledgment both in the public sphere and in historical writing, and certain well-placed men in turn took advantage of the wider range of expressive resources available to them. By the time of Xenophon, outstanding individuals interested in shaping their own legacies could, for example, erect or accept statues or other monuments during their lifetimes, deliberately perform services that merited honorific inscriptions, and perhaps even, under certain circumstances, exercise some control over their reception in historiography.

This essay treats the eminent individual’s attempt during the earlier fourth century to craft what I will call here a ‘historical memory’ of himself: the recollection, in tangible media and beyond his lifetime, of his contributions to the political and military life of his state. [7] I first characterize some of the general opportunities for historical commemoration available to eminent individuals, particularly at Athens, during this time (section 2). Next, I use several case studies drawn from Athens, Sparta, and Thebes to show that the construction of historical memory was by no means an isolated or localized concern (section 3). Finally (section 4), I suggest that certain individual historiographic characters demonstrate an understanding of historical memory that not only validates and valorizes the literary genre that created them, but also constructs a sympathetic and engaged audience. On these terms, then, historiography itself may be read as a partial guide to the establishment of historical memory for those who would aspire to its text.

2. The ‘Tools of Memory’ in Fourth-Century Greece

The developed concept of ‘historical memory’ as observed in the fourth century BCE finds its earliest literary roots in the heroic paradigm. [8] Achilles sees fighting at Troy as a necessary condition for gaining κλέος (‘fame’), and suggests that he can determine how he is remembered according to whether or not he remains at war (Iliad 9.412–416); Helen speculates that she and Paris will be ἀνθρώποισι . . . ἀοίδιμοι ἐσσομένοισι, “made famous in song for the generations to come” (Iliad 6.358). In Achilles’ reflections, therefore, recollection is bound up with deeds; in Helen’s, it is attached to words. But while logos may transform ergon into memory, this process alone does not constitute the crafting of history, which by the fourth century can be articulated as requiring specific, as opposed to paradigmatic, content (Aristotle Poetics 9.1451a–b). [9] The specificity that Aristotle recognizes derives not only from the report of factual information, but also from historical context, the grounding of actions in a particular time, place, and set of circumstances. The fact that Aristotle famously takes Alcibiades as his exemplar is an appropriate reminder that an essential part of that context for the Greek individual of the classical era is his membership in his state. Indeed, the relationship between individual and polis can both enhance and limit opportunities for the creation of historically contextualized memory. During the fifth century, one place where this can be observed is in Pindar. [10]

Pindaric poetry stands at the intersection not only of deed and word, but also of individual and civic life. [11] In the Pindaric world, κλέος and memory derive from the productive relationship of poet and honorand. The athletic victor performs deeds in the ‘real’ world that in turn furnish subject-matter for the poet, who both notes their specific qualities and explores their universal ones by analogizing them in myth. That which is ephemeral, the single act achieved in time, is transformed into a twofold eternal, consisting firstly of the song, ever reproducible in performance and (probably also) in written text; and secondly (and more importantly) of the κλέος that the song can bring to the victor by inscribing his achievement in memory. [12] But unlike the Homeric hero, the Pindaric athletic victor is also a member of a state, and the careful reconciliation of his individual glory with the honor of his native polis, as Kurke has shown, is one of the central concerns of the poetry. The athlete must be productively incorporated not only into the universalizing realm of myth, but also into the broader history of his people. [13]

Poetry was also employed as a tool of historical memory at Athens in the recollection of the Tyrannicides, whose deeds inspired not only what was probably the first public sculpture of non-divinities (the Harmodius and Aristogeiton group by Antenor), [14] but also a well-known group of skolia. [15] History-making actions during the early and mid-fifth century were further recollected in the ‘songs’ of the Persian War epigrams, [16] and, in a few cases, in metrical funerary inscriptions. [17] The later fifth century, however, witnessed a significant expansion of the ‘vocabulary’ of memory, yielding the earliest surviving public commemorations of individuals in document reliefs and inscribed honorific decrees. [18] Earlier on, most of these are for non-Athenians, [19] but by the fourth century, some important changes are evident. Not only does the quantity of extant inscriptions rise throughout Greece during this period, [20] but at Athens in particular, there is a marked increase in document reliefs and honorific decrees for individuals, which are now much more frequently offered for Athenian citizens, not only for proxenoi or other foreign benefactors. [21]

Such public inscriptions are themselves history-making gestures: the inscription, as an act of writing, reifies the memory of the benefactor’s meritorious action, records the transaction of more ephemeral honors (such as entertainment in the prytaneion), and, through its physical presence in the landscape of the city, also symbolically recollects the impact that the honorand has made. [22] That these documents were considered to be an integral part of the history of the polis as well as memorials of individuals is suggested by the retrospective monuments and documents that seem to have been construed—and even constructed—during the fourth century. [23]

By the later classical period, then, an ambitious individual who wished to design his own historical legacy might, for example, ensure impact upon the material record by deliberately performing public service that tended to result in public recollection. Proxeny in particular had long since been construed as a public honor, and many such relationships were recorded in inscriptions. [24] Civic benefaction might also merit commemorative returns, and perhaps more frequently in the later fourth century than before, the benefaction itself might be an inscribed or labeled monument. [25] Even just proposing a significant decree might result in one’s name being ‘immortalized’ in stone.

The erection of statuary was also a potential avenue for the creation of historical memory during the fourth century, particularly because the vocabulary of commemoration that was considered ‘appropriate’ seems to have been expanding. Names now appear more frequently, for example, on honorific statue-bases. [26] Living men are observed inspiring or accepting statues at public expense, and while privately-funded dedications of various types had long been acceptable adornments in sanctuaries, [27] special commemorations of individual historical deeds in those contexts (such as Lysander’s ‘Nauarch’s Monument’ at Delphi: see below) seem to find parallels in the growing attribution of military victories to prominent commanders, rather than to their cities or their citizens. [28]

Such opportunities, however, were simply not available to all. Anecdotal evidence suggests that inexperienced speakers were frequently shouted down in the Athenian Assembly; [29] proxenies were the province of the wealthy and well positioned; and those without adequate education and military training were highly unlikely to be elected generals. [30] While athletic victories remained a significant motivation for the erection of statues in certain sanctuaries, [31] such achievements of strength or sponsorship (pace Thucydides’ Alcibiades in the debate about the Sicilian expedition) [32] seem not to have been construed as the exclusive means for the construction of lasting historical impact. Warfare and political leadership have left more significant traces both in historiography and in the material record, suggesting that these legacy-building behaviors were probably largely the province of social, economic, and political elites. As in earlier periods of Greek history, such favorably situated individuals seem to have expressed certain common interests in similar ways that transcended the boundaries of their respective poleis. [33] Case studies from Athens, Thebes, and Sparta highlight some of these connections.

3. The Legacy-Builders: Case Studies

The Athenians

Demosthenes says that the portrait statue of Conon in the Agora was the first of a man (as opposed to a god) to be erected by the state since the Tyrannicides. [34] To what extent might Conon himself have helped to motivate such an extraordinary gesture?

That Conon was a conscious manipulator of public perception is suggested by the tradition that he advocated ‘autonomy’ for the Greek territories from which he and Pharnabazus expelled the Spartans during the middle years of the 390s. [35] Conon may have been acting in part out of expediency, but his ongoing rivalry with Thrasybulus was also a likely motivation for his careful attention to his image, as Strauss has observed, suggesting that “it is hard to avoid the suspicion that Athens was not big enough for two liberators.” [36] The honors that took place upon Conon’s return from the victory at Cnidus are striking. Strauss collects the awards that Conon received (citing an inscription, the Agora statue, an Acropolis statue, and freedom from taxes), iterates the benefits that Conon bestowed in kind (new fortifications for the city, a temple to Cnidian Aphrodite, and a “festival liturgy for the entire citizenry”), and further notes that “the cities of Ionia, ever alert, exchanged statues of Lysander for images of the hero of Cnidus.” [37] Most significant here is the cycle of these honorific transactions. Conon, in a conscious, symbolic gesture, effectively proclaims to the Ionians the freedom that Athens failed to win for them a century before, during the great revolt against the Persians. In return, the Ionian Greeks grant Conon himself a series of honors expressed in tangible form. [38] Next, at Athens, Conon engages in public benefactions that are familiar—in kind if not perhaps in scope—from the fifth century. Like Nicias and even Alcibiades before him, he indulges, for example, in grand religious gestures: [39] the Piraeus temple of Cnidian Aphrodite is probably a tangible attempt to construct an historical legacy along with a building. [40] Most striking of all, however, would have been his large-scale support, both financial and logistical, for the rebuilding of Athens’ Long Walls. [41] The walls themselves would not only memorialize Conon’s patronage, but also in effect portray him as a re-founder of the Athenian Empire, [42] a Themistocles or Pericles reborn in an age that could offer him increased opportunities for memorialization as repayment for his achievements, his leadership, and his philanthropy.

Chabrias, the victorious commander in the battle of Naxos, also received high honors from the Athenian dêmos, most notably a statue in the Agora and a golden crown. [43] The Agora statue, as Burnett and Edmonson observe, was probably the next major public dedication after Conon’s: its elaborate, inscribed base survives, and records a series of honors conferred upon Chabrias by a variety of foreign and civic entities. [44] A disputed story even suggests that Chabrias insisted on a particular pose for this statue to commemorate the specific battle tactics he had employed against Agesilaus at Thebes. [45] Regardless of what the actual physical stance of the figure might have been, as Anderson points out, Aristotle’s examples in the Rhetoric show that the statue itself could be construed as a testimonial to a specific view of the man’s deeds. [46] Like Conon, then, Chabrias earned the approbation of his fellow citizens and transformed their approval into a more permanent form of self-commemoration, in this case through his own monument to an historical deed: the enshrining of his golden crown on the Acropolis. [47]

The Thebans

Lukewarm or hostile historiographic traditions, [48] probably combined with the distractions of near-constant warfare in a semi-rural and semi-federalized region [49] and a somewhat less intensive ‘epigraphical habit’ [50] than that of Athens, have left only limited near-contemporary evidence for the self-presentation and reception of the leaders of fourth-century Thebes. However, there are some signs that certain Thebans probably also attempted to exercise control over their historical legacies.

The most significant evidence in this regard is a famous inscription from Thebes itself, probably dating to shortly after the Battle of Leuctra: [51]

Xenocrates, Theopompus,Mnasilaus.When the Spartan spear was dominant, thenXenocrates took by lot the task of offering atrophy to Zeus, not fearing the host from theEurotas or the Spartan shield. “Thebans aresuperior in war,” proclaims the trophy wonthrough victory (or bringing victory) by the spearat Leuctra; nor did we run second to Epaminondas.

Rhodes and Osborne 2007:151 no. 30 (text and translation)

The first two dedicators of the monument (though not the third) are known figures: Xenocrates was a boeotarch; Theopompus was involved in the liberation of the Theban Cadmeia from the Spartans. [52] The inscription is of especial interest not only for its poetical features, but also for its attempt to correct historical memory. [53]

Commemoration of individuals in elegiac couplets, as here, is known at least as early as the archaic period, when this poetical form was commonly used for epitaphs. [54] This private practice seems to have continued through the fifth century and into the fourth (with a mid-fifth century break at Athens). But elegiacs were also occasionally employed for important public monuments to history-making individuals and groups: in the Athenian Agora, for example, both the statue-base for the Tyrannicides and the monument for the Persian Wars carried epigrams in elegiacs. [55] A common feature of such inscriptions, especially when they reference or describe historical events, is the use of appropriately heroic language to glorify their content and their agents. [56] This inscription participates in that tradition, but most notable are the Pindaric resonances: the word root νικαφορ-, though not Homeric, occurs a dozen times in Pindar, and the phrase δεύτεροι ἐδράμομεν similarly recalls athletic competition. [57]

The elevation of the individual military commander may have been somewhat problematic during the earlier fifth century. The Athenian orators, for example, recollect (although likely with exaggerated fondness) only limited public commemoration for the famous generals of the past, but changes in the norms of commemoration in the later fifth and earlier fourth century meant that Conon and Chabrias might accept—or even invite— honorific statues, along with other types of acclaim. [58] The Theban Leuctra inscription should probably also be understood in this context. Xenocrates, Theopompus, and Mnasilaos are here not merely attempting to guarantee their own historical legacy by reifying it in an inscription. They are also crafting a corollary to the legacy of another, more famous individual, Epaminondas, and perhaps even attempting to aggrandize themselves through comparison with him. The memorable last line of the epigram both performs a literal rewriting and demands a metaphorical reconsideration of what Shrimpton suggests was already becoming Theban legend, [59] and the reader is thereby implicitly invited to use the historical account contained in the epigram to adjust his understanding of the historical event.

Did Epaminondas in turn concern himself with his own historical legacy? He was perhaps best known for his daring military exploits, and in this both his immediate reputation and his lasting fame would have benefited not only from the growing tendencies of his age to honor individual generals, but also from the potential associations to be made with the Iliadic heroes. But one of the lasting monuments to his achievements in war was couched in highly traditional terms: his refoundation of Messene. Diodorus reads the city’s creation as being at least in part a strategic decision, due to the location of the site and Thebes’ ongoing conflicts with Sparta. But he also suggests, just beforehand, that Epaminondas was a man φύσει μεγαλεπίβολος ὢν καὶ δόξης ὀρεγόμενος αἰωνίου . . . τόπον δ ᾽ εὔθετον ἔχουσαν κατὰ τῆς Σπάρτης, “by his [very] character a planner of great things and grasping for eternal glory” (Diodorus 15.66.1). If there was any of this in Epaminondas’ motivations, casting himself in the role of colonial founder was a superb choice to ensure that he left his mark upon the historical record.

In most traditional Greek colonial narratives, once the founder, or κτίστης, and his colonists have separated from their mother-city, that founder serves as both a political and a religious leader. In addition to setting up the new city, he also selects or creates its laws and other institutions. Most significantly, after his death, the κτίστης is often heroized. [60] Diodorus’ account of Epaminondas’ activities at Messene is very much in keeping with this pattern—and is doubtless influenced by it. But the fact that this tradition of the heroic founder was still alive in the fourth century is suggested by Constitution of the Athenians 58.1, the earliest known reference to Harmodius and Aristogeiton receiving sacrifices as nominal κτίσται of the Athenian democracy. [61] Epaminondas may have deliberately presented himself as κτίστης of Messene not only because it was a symbolic gesture for the moment, but also because it would ensure him lasting remembrance as the liberator of the district’s people from Spartan domination.

Was potential heroization something one could actually aim at in the fourth century? Currie contends that “historical persons’ emulations of heroes (pre-eminently Herakles) constitutes a bid in those persons’ lifetime and on their initiative to be regarded as the equals of established heroes.” [62] In his examination of the athlete Euthymus of Locri, who received heroic honors during his lifetime, Currie suggests that the process of heroization might best be understood as a communicative exchange between the honorand and his audience, that is, his community. The aspirant hero behaves in a manner that invites others to associate him with an established figure, and then welcomes the assumption that he should be understood—and revered—in the same way as the object of his imitation. Both sides are therefore active participants in the transaction. [63] Euthymus lived during the fifth century BCE, allowing Currie to argue that the conferral of heroic (and perhaps even divine) honors on living men must be recognized as having begun earlier than is conventionally recognized.

Another potential model for Epaminondas’ behavior, however, may have been the Spartan general Brasidas, [64] remembered in particular by Thucydides both for his military talents and for his individual daring. [65] Brasidas also received heroic honors as a colonial founder at Amphipolis, [66] but this occurred only after his death in 422. The phenomenon was therefore in one sense consistent with established colonial practices, in that it is the deceased founder who typically receives heroic attentions. But Amphipolis already possessed a founder in Hagnon, who had led out the colony in the year 437/6. [67] Regardless of the extent of Hagnon’s cult, [68] the reassignment of the privilege of memorialization is especially striking in that it happened within a single generation. It may have been presaged in any case by the reaction of the inhabitants of Scione to their liberation by Brasidas, where the supreme civic approbation suggested by the award of a golden crown [69] is coupled with hints of heroization: Thucydides compares the treatment of Brasidas to that conventionally accorded an athlete. [70] It is well worth considering whether Brasidas might have served as a potential model for some of Epaminondas’ later choices.

The Spartans

Currie also connects the phenomenon of Euthymus of Locri with the experiences of Lysander of Sparta, [71] who is said to have received honors as a god at Samos during his own lifetime, [72] and who is still the best-attested (if contentious) example of such acknowledgement prior to the Hellenistic kings. To what extent might Lysander might have attempted to foster such reception through his own behavior?

The commemoration of individual achievements in sanctuaries was by no means unknown at this point in Greek history. Individual dedications of arms and armor, both personal items and (especially) those taken from enemies, were a long-standing tradition; [73] extravagant and personalized ‘gifts’ to the gods also contributed to the reputations of their givers. [74] But the erection of individual monuments to historical successes in (especially) warfare seems to have been somewhat restrained in the fifth century and often posthumous. [75] As Crane highlights, however, only some 75 years after the erasure of Pausanias’ epigram from the Serpent Column’s tripod, Lysander, during his lifetime and of his own accord, erected a spectacular, highly symbolic monument at Delphi. [76] The epigram from the base of Lysander’s statue may be preserved in a recut inscription from the later fourth century (ca. 350–300 BCE), in the now-expected elegiac couplets:

Lysander set up his image here on this monument when as conquerorwith swift ships he destroyed the Cecropidan force,having crowned Lacedaemon undefeated,the acropolis of Greece, homeland of beautiful dancing-grounds. Ion, from sea-girt Samos, created this poem.

Meiggs and Lewis 1969:288 no. 95 ( = FD III.1.50)

Like the Leuctra inscription from Thebes, this epigram emphasizes the historical contributions of its subject and employs poetical language. Despite the prominent mention of his state, the emphasis upon Lysander himself is striking for its reversal of commemorative expectations: under ordinary circumstances, it is the city that crowns the individual, but here it is Lysander who crowns Sparta. The monument itself apparently showed the god Poseidon crowning Lysander (Pausanias 10.9.7), and so if the epigram indeed belongs to the monument, the overall message would have portrayed Lysander as a kind of conduit to the divine on his city’s behalf. It might also have invoked the extensive reach of Lysander’s power and authority. On Attic document reliefs, for example, individuals who had benefited the dêmos might be shown being crowned by Athena, patroness of the polis and returner in kind of benefits received. [77] Casting Poseidon in a similar position here implies that Lysander is the benefactor of the sea itself. [78]

Crane further observes that “the Lysander monument fully exploits the devices by which the famous could give permanent physical shape to their triumphs, and thus perpetuate their moment of glory,” noting that the epigram for Lysander’s statue is itself a signed work of art by the poet Ion of Samos. [79] As described above, poetry had been construed as a means of memorialization in the Greek world at least as early as the Homeric oral tradition, but its use for the glorification of the living had expanded over time, moving from the acknowledgement of athletes (as, for example, in Pindar) to encompass the praise of agents of political and military history. [80] Now, an individual seeking historical memory might well deliberately employ verse to record his deeds. Plutarch even suggests that Lysander was possessed of an actual poetical following (Plutarch Lysander 18.4–6). Admittedly, the retinue of artists could be a contamination from the Alexander tradition (e.g. Curtius 8.5.7–8; Arrian 4.9.9). But it is worth noting that the Delphi monument Lysander erected again evokes the kind of memorialization earlier reserved for athletic victors, [81] and that the kind of heroized attention Lysander seems to have deliberately sought was previously modeled by athletes like Euthymus, participating in a paradigm that was traceable by the Greeks themselves all the way back to Heracles. [82]

The Lysander monument at Delphi may have itself helped to inspire the Lysander cult and the Lysandreia on Samos; [83] at a minimum, it suggests Lysander’s intention to present himself in a suitably heroic vein, and to open himself to the embrace of his ‘audiences.’ [84] For a variety of political reasons, it appears that the Samians were the ones who were most receptive to the message he was sending, [85] but it is unlikely that even Lysander could have predicted the apparent magnitude of their response. He may have hoped to be honored as a hero after his lifetime and perhaps even during it, but little to no real precedent seems to have existed for him to aim directly at the status of divinity on political and military grounds. [86]

It is remarkable, however, how quickly the concept seems to have been taken up. The Plutarchan anecdote that the Thasians offered to pay Agesilaus divine cult, and that he ostentatiously refused the honor, has been defended as historical and near-contemporary by Flower, who holds that Plutarch’s source for the story was Theopompus. For Flower, Agesilaus’ rejection of divine status may have postponed the development of true ruler cult until the time of the Diadochoi. [87] This arrest, however, seems to have been not only temporary and artificial, as Flower suggests, but also compartmentalized, in that other ways of honoring and elevating the individual seem to have continued in their development uninterrupted down to and beyond the time of Philip II. One of these ways was historiography.

4. Legacy Building and Historiography

Herodotus’ preface suggests that historiography itself is a medium for the creation of memory, [88] and it is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that one of his own characters, Leonidas, appears to demonstrate awareness of that stance. Before the final struggle at Thermopylae, Herodotus examines Leonidas’ possible motivations for dismissing most of the other Greek contingents, noting in particular that μένοντι δὲ αὐτοῦ κλέος μέγα ἐλείπετο, καὶ ἡ Σπάρτης εὐδαιμονίη οὐκ ἐξηλείφετο, “great fame would be left him if he stayed, and the good fortune of Sparta would not be erased” (Herodotus 7.220.1–4, quotation at 7.220.2). Herodotus is clearly modeling his Leonidas here upon Achilles, given not only the reference to κλέος but also the idea of remaining at war to gain it, despite the promise of an early death. But this Spartan Achilles has wider-ranging concerns: beyond himself, he is also invested in the future of his city. Here, the character Leonidas seems not only to have taken the glory of the state to himself in the manner of a Pindaric victor, [89] but even to have read the opening of the text in which he appears, given the connections between Leonidas’ thoughts here and the author’s words in the preface: [90] ὡς μήτε τὰ γενόμενα ἐξ ἀνθρώπων τῷ χρόνῳ ἐξίτηλα γένηται, μήτε ἔργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά . . . ἀκλεᾶ γένηται, “so that what has happened among men may not fade with time, and that acts both great and amazing, some accomplished by Greeks and others by barbarians, may not lack fame” (Herodotus praef.). [91]

Herodotus here ascribes thoughts to Leonidas that seem to prove the essential function of the historian’s own mission. Leonidas may be sketched as a quasi-epic hero, but his concern for the εὐδαιμονίη of his state grounds him in historical reality, and Herodotus, through his diction, makes the character himself appear to understand that fact. For Leonidas, as for Herodotus, historiography is now the medium of memorialization, a path towards κλέος, and a means for crafting historical memory. It is too much to claim that the historical Leonidas was acting for the proverbial cameras, but it seems safe to say that the character Leonidas is certainly performing for the text—and that incidences like this might serve to remind readers and audiences of the memorializing potential of historiography.

Similar metatextual awareness seems to be displayed by some characters in Xenophon. An examination of Agesilaus and of Xenophon himself suggests that Xenophon the writer, much as he may admire the Spartan king, still demonstrates a pronounced difference between the character Agesilaus and the character Xenophon in their attitudes towards the construction of their respective historical legacies.

Flower, as already noted, contrasts Lysander’s acceptance of divine cult with Agesilaus’ refusal of it. [92] My examination here treats a slightly different feature of this important distinction and highlights some other places where Xenophon’s particular version of Agesilaus is also shown deliberately rejecting methods of historical memorialization available during the earlier fourth century. This does not mean, however, that Xenophon’s Agesilaus character has no ego, no desire for honor or fame, no long-term plans. He is possessed of all these things: one might note, in the Asian expedition sequence of the Hellenica alone, his negative reaction to the popularity of Lysander, his aspirations to detach part of the Persian Empire, his disappointment at being recalled from Asia and thereby deprived of opportunities for achievement, and even his personal pride in the outcome of a cavalry battle in Thessaly. [93] But in both the Hellenica and the Agesilaus, he repeatedly either spurns or ignores opportunities to shape his historical legacy under the terms explored here.

Xenophon’s encomiastic Agesilaus shows the king refusing to allow the raising of statues to himself, presumably during his lifetime. (Plutarch has him explicitly prohibiting this after his death as well, something that may, like Lysander’s poets, also represent some contamination from the Alexander tradition.) [94] This ‘rejection of fame’ motif also occurs in the tale told by Xenophon (and repeated by Plutarch), that Agesilaus would not race horses at Olympia and in fact encouraged his sister Cynisca to do so instead, to show that this activity did not display aretê (Xenophon Agesilaus 9.6; Plutarch Agesilaus 20.1). In this anecdote, Agesilaus deprives himself of one of the major paths towards commemoration in a panhellenic sanctuary: given the famous (and rather innovative) monument that his early rival erected to an historical deed, it is difficult not to read into the literary Agesilaus’ rejection of even one of the more traditional ‘tools of memory’ a deliberate contrast to Lysander.

Perhaps the most dramatic gesture in Xenophon’s accounts, mentioned in both the Hellenica and the Agesilaus, is Agesilaus’ withdrawal from Asia when he is summoned back to Greece by the Spartans. In both works, although the accounts differ in style and emphasis, the king’s decision is portrayed as a deliberate choice of country over self, and duty over prospective honor. [95] As Xenophon narrates it, Agesilaus’ choice to return from Asia is inherently unselfish, which is doubtless part of the reason why he implies that it is virtuous. The decision to return to ‘help Sparta’ does therefore garner a certain kind of honor for Agesilaus, but one that bears little resemblance in either degree or kind to what he may really have been contemplating.

The lack of self-commemorative effort on the part of the Agesilaus character also emerges in vivid scenes such as the military preparations at Ephesus, complete with competitive games, intensive work upon military crafts, and religious processions. The sum total of the variety of activities feels not dissimilar to the shield of Achilles or the funeral games for Patroclus in the Iliad; [96] and like Achilles’ shield, which Hephaestus promises that men will gaze upon with amazement (Iliad 18.466–467), Agesilaus makes Ephesus ἀξίαν . . . θέας (“deserving of sight,” Xenophon Hellenica 3.4.17; cf. verbatim, Xenophon Agesilaus 1.26). Why, then, does the character Agesilaus seem unconcerned with the historical memorialization of the great deeds that Xenophon says he wishes to inspire? There are a number of possible responses to this question—including that Xenophon’s ethical interests may have guided his presentation of this material. [97] But the Homeric connection noted here invites reflection upon a passage from Pericles’ Funeral Oration in Thucydides that may help to illuminate what Xenophon is doing:

We have no requirement to be the object of Homer’s tribute, nor that of any other who will provide fleeting pleasure through his words, but to whose version of events the truth will do injury. We have forced the whole sea and earth to be open to our boldness, and have sowed everywhere eternal monuments to both our vengeance and our benefactions.

Thucydides 2.41.4

The Funeral Oration, of course, emphasizes throughout, as here, the tension between logos and ergon. [98] But in its surface rejection of Homeric poetry and its emphasis on the creation of memory through action, this passage also offers a way of thinking about Xenophon’s characterization of Agesilaus. The deeds of the deceased and the achievements of the polis are here converted into memory through words, not once, but twice—once by the ostensible speaker, Pericles, and once by Thucydides, the historian. Encomium is therefore acknowledged both implicitly and explicitly within the text as one of the new ‘tools of memory.’

And it is thus that Xenophon may claim to be himself the crafter of Agesilaus’ historical legacy, playing if not a Homer to Agesilaus’ Achilles, then perhaps at least a kind of Pindar for a king whom he records as deliberately refusing to embrace the role of heroic victor. It has long been noted that Xenophon’s encomium is connected in style and thought with Isocrates’ Evagoras, [99] and Race has shown that the Evagoras in fact employs styles and methods of praise that owe much to Pindar. [100] Whether or not this outcome was one of the goals of the ‘real-life’ king, the character in the Hellenica and in the Agesilaus has his historical memory deliberately and, I would argue, explicitly, ‘rescued’ by Xenophon.

This leads naturally to the question of Xenophon’s depiction of himself as a character in the Anabasis. For all of the historian’s highlighting of Agesilaus’ restraint, the character Xenophon still behaves in ways that show him planning specifically for his own historical legacy. The fact that Xenophon the character is not more closely modeled upon the modesty paradigm of Agesilaus may suggest that Xenophon the historian is using the figure of himself to communicate with a receptive public about the construction of historiographic memory, and to demonstrate how to understand his text. [101]

An important passage in this regard is the controversy over whether the remains of the Ten Thousand should found a colony. The idea begins in Xenophon’s own mind and expands outward through rumor until it becomes the subject of a military assembly, climaxing in a defensive speech by Xenophon himself. At issue are both the possibility of the soldiers settling in a new land far from their homes and the rewards that might accrue to Xenophon as a result. The quasi-heroic position of κτίστης is on offer, but so are immediate power and access to wealth.

The colony-idea is first raised in Xenophon’s mind late in Book 5 of the Anabasis:

To Xenophon at that moment, as he looked upon the large numbers of Greek infantry, light-armed troops, archers, slingers, and cavalry—especially because they were at the ready due to their experience—present in Pontus, where such a vast military force would have been otherwise readied only at significant expense, it seemed that it would be a good idea for them to acquire land and influence for Greece by settling a city. And it seemed to him that it would be a large one, as he calculated their own numbers along with those who lived in the surrounding region of Pontus. And so, before saying anything to any one of the soldiers, he sacrificed towards these goals, after sending for Silanus the Ambraciot, formerly the prophet of Cyrus.

Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.15–16

Clustered within this passage is the vocabulary of colonial foundation (χώραν, gaining significance by association; προσκτήσασθαι; κατοικίσαντας), and even a potential oblique connection to the traditional preparatory rituals, in the reference to sacrifice (ἐθύετο). The precise context and purpose of this particular sacrifice, however, are deliberately misrepresented by Timasion and perhaps even misconstrued by Xenophon’s own men. [102] The problem suggests that the reader, too, may not be out of bounds in expecting for a moment that this sacrifice is intended as a prologue to the usual foundation rites, particularly given the word order of the sentence, which mentions the ritual before indicating its audience.

Following this scene, the colony idea is deconstructed almost immediately by Silanus the mantis. The rumor he spreads amongst the men is presented in terms that echo—but alter—Xenophon’s initial thoughts (Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.17). Silanus repeats the general concept, but changes Xenophon’s motivations from apparently altruistic and ‘panhellenic’ ones to selfish ones. While the character Xenophon was shown contemplating the future and assessing the resources of the potential colony, Silanus instead implies more immediate concerns about personal acclaim. The central issue for the men becomes not the foundation of a potentially great city, but simply the question of whether to remain where they are now: Xenophon’s motivations are minimized in the face of the soldiers’ concern for their own fate (Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.19). Timasion and Thorax reduce the issue once again in their report to the local merchants (Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.19-20), focusing upon whether or not the army may put pressure upon them by taking up permanent residence. The idea of the colony has now drifted far away: when it is recollected by the Achaeans Philesias and Lycon, it is depicted as a private rumor started by Xenophon himself, accompanied by secret machinations (Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.27). Xenophon capitulates and abandons his plans (Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.28–31).

When the colony idea is first introduced in the report of Xenophon’s thoughts, it is presented in terms that tend towards the general, the ennobling, and the eternal. However, as it is debated and gradually dismissed, the emphasis moves to immediate benefits and liabilities, and finally to shallow motivations and open distrust. The implication here seems to be that Xenophon the character is able to conceive of himself as a κτίστης, but his men are irrevocably focused on baser, more transient concerns. Xenophon the writer is therefore here able to ennoble Xenophon the character in two ways: firstly, through the contemplation of the image of the colonial founder, regardless of whether that image is actually activated; and secondly, through the character’s ‘selfless’ inclination to yield to the wishes of his men (see especially Xenophon Anabasis 5.6.28). And it is, ironically, in this final rejection of the potential honor that the character Xenophon can imitate Agesilaus—having already demonstrated that he knows full well what he is giving up.

5. Conclusion

In fourth-century Greece, a highly developed vocabulary of commemoration permits appropriately positioned individuals both to script (in literature and in the epigraphical record) and to stage (in public works of art) their own historical significance. By making careful choices about their own activities and behaviors, by demonstrating receptivity to acknowledgements offered by others, and even by deliberately memorializing themselves, such individuals demonstrate their conscious ability to harness public discourse to their advantage, both during their lives and after their deaths.

The shifting political divisions and near-constant conflicts between the major poleis of the Greek mainland during the earlier fourth century created a situation that was ripe for exploitation by any state that could gain a decisive upper hand, but they also provided highly advantageous conditions for those who aspired to the creation of historical memory. And the receptivity of the Greeks to image-making by eminent leaders in turn groomed hospitable audiences for the notable ‘performances’ that would follow during the Hellenistic age. [103] The picture that emerges from the evidence here, therefore, not only suggests a very sophisticated and self-conscious exploitation of both public and literary resources, but also shows that Alexander and his successors had many possible examples to whom they might have turned for programmatic inspiration. [104]

Bibliography

Ajootian, A. 1998. “A Day at the Races: The Tyrannicides in the Fifth-Century Agora.” In Hartswick and Sturgeon 1998:1–13.

Footnotes

[ back ] 5. All dates in this chapter are BCE. All translations are my own unless otherwise noted.

[ back ] 6. Starr 1968 traces the evolution of this concept, in the form of an “intellectual history of early Greece” (5), from the time of the Homeric poems through the fifth century; see also Derderian 2001, esp. 161–188.

[ back ] 7. On the essence of this concept as ‘historical’ in classical Greece, see Momigliano 1972, esp. 283–284, 290.

[ back ] 9. On the evolving relationship between memory and historical context during the fifth century, see Derderian 2001, esp. 102–111, 161–188, 192–194. Both this discussion and Starr’s (see n10, below) have been very influential upon my thinking about the issues discussed here.

[ back ] 10. On Pindar as a potential bridge between heroism and history, see Starr 1968:124–130.

[ back ] 11. Kurke 1991, esp. 163–224; Starr 1968:124–130. I am grateful to P. Hari Prasad for discussion of Pindaric issues in conversation and in class presentation that made the points expressed here increasingly clear and significant to me.

[ back ] 12. See Segal 1989 and Prasad 2007:4–5, both of whose articulations influenced my discussion of the ‘Pindaric world’ here.

[ back ] 14. On the Antenor group, see Taylor 1981:33–37; on the unique position of these statues in Athenian artistic and political history, see also Keesling 2003:174–176, esp. n25, and Ajootian 1998:1, esp. n4. The most important ancient testimonia cited by these and other analyses are Aristotle Rhetoric 1.9.1368a and Demosthenes 20.70, but a fuller survey of the literary and epigraphical evidence for both statue groups may be found in Brunnsåker 1971.

[ back ] 17. During the mid-fifth century, these more elaborate, historically contextualized epitaphs, exceedingly rare in the archaeological record in any case, seem generally to have been confined to foreign benefactors. The two best-known examples from this time are probably the epitaphs of Pythagoras of Selymbria (IG I3 1154, ca. 460–450) and Pythion of Megara (IG I3 1353, ca. 446/5). From the later fifth century, when metrical epitaphs for Athenian citizens are slightly more common in the epigraphical record, see e.g. the epitaphs of Glauciades and -ULOS [sic], discussed in Ferrario 2006a:91–95.

[ back ] 19. As noted in Ferrario 2006a:87n29, approximately 16 proxenies of Athens are attested before 450, and 78 (of which 68 are referenced in extant inscriptions) from the years 450–400 (Walbank 1978:ix–xiv). On the first appearance of honors for Athenian citizens in the archaeological record (as opposed to the literary testimonia), see e.g. Henry 1983:13, 22–23; on proxenoi in the Attic document reliefs, see Lawton 1995, esp. 32.

[ back ] 23. E.g. Thomas 1989:83–94; Robertson 1976. For a brief history of scholarship on this issue and a methodological discussion, see Davies 1996.

[ back ] 24. E.g. Henry 1983:116–162; Walbank 1978. Perlman 1958 briefly treats the use of proxeny outside of Athens (including in Boeotia, op. cit. 189–190); for more on Boeotian proxenies (holding that they seem to have borne much resemblance to Athenian practices, which may have provided their political models), see Gerolymatos 1985. Proxenies and other honors could be hereditary, too, offering a real-life parallel to the endurance of the inscription that recorded the privileges: see Henry 1983:137–140; Perlman 1958:187–188.

[ back ] 25. See Umholtz 2002, who holds that the surviving dedicatory inscriptions of the fourth century, while more numerous than those of previous periods, represent continuity with the past rather than an abrupt change.

[ back ] 28. See esp. Demosthenes 23.198; Burnett and Edmonson 1961:89. West 1969:14 and nn35–36, with references, notes that by the fourth century, “generals, not the army as a whole, are given credit for setting [trophies] up after a victory.” Keesling 2003:175 holds that athletic victors were part of the narrow class of individuals whose self-representation in sanctuaries had been acceptable prior to the changes evident at this time.

[ back ] 30. On “qualifications for citizenship” (author’s heading) and for the various governmental and military positions in classical Athens, e.g. Samons 2004:45–49, with both ancient and modern references; see also Raaflaub 1996:154–159. The ephebate, once it became a recognized institution, may or may not have been open to the poorest individuals: see Samons 2004:47n26 and Raaflaub 1996:157.

[ back ] 38. The ironic fact that Conon was essentially under contract to the Persians seems to have posed little or no difficulty: see Perlman 1968:262 and n9, citing Xenophon Hellenica 4.8.9 and Diodorus 14.85.2.

[ back ] 39. E.g. Nicias’ famous festal benefactions at Delos (Plutarch Nicias 3.4–6), and Alcibiades’ celebration of the procession for the Eleusinian Mysteries upon his return to Athens from exile (Xenophon Hellenica 1.4.20; Plutarch Alcibiades 34.4).

[ back ] 40. On this general concept, see e.g. Umholtz 2002:278–282, esp. 281n78.

[ back ] 50. Hedrick 1999 uses this phrase for his title, explaining that it has been borrowed from MacMullen 1982.

[ back ] 51. Shrimpton 1971:313 discusses the Leuctra inscription, along with the Delphi Pelopidas statue base, for slightly different reasons, noting: “Fortunately, we do possess some inscriptional proof of the prestige being won by the Theban heroes in central Greece while they were being ignored in Athens . . . We must conclude, then, that very shortly after the actual events there existed glowing stories of Pelopidas and Epaminondas (whether literary or oral) waiting to enter Athenian literary traditions from central Greece.”

[ back ] 60. E.g. Herodotus on the colonization narratives of Cyrene (Herodotus 4.150–159), and Thucydides on the colonization narrative of Sicily (Thucydides 6.2.1–5.3). This brief summary of the role of the κτίστης is based upon the points iterated by Osborne 1996:8–17, 115–129, 202–207, 232–242; and Murray 1993:102–123.

[ back ] 65. E.g. Thucydides 4.11.4, 81.1–2, 112.1–2, 5.10.6, et al.; see also Harley 1942:68–83. I am grateful to S. Saporito for discussion of Brasidas in conversation and in class presentation that called my attention to and helped to shape my interpretations of some of the material that I treat here.

[ back ] 68. See Currie 2002:37–38, esp. n134; cf. also McCauley 1993:243. I do not necessarily agree that the Thucydidean passage implies a wholesale transfer of honors from Hagnon to Brasidas; the emphasis appears to be upon the rituals established for the new κτίστης, rather than upon those existing for the old one.

[ back ] 69. Henry 1983:22–23 demonstrates that inscriptions recording the award of golden crowns are exceptionally rare in the fifth and earlier fourth centuries. On literary testimonia and other evidence for such crowns, see e.g. Gygax 2006, esp. 490–496.

[ back ] 70. ἰδίᾳ δὲ ἐταινίουν τε καὶ προσήρχοντο ὥσπερ ἀθλητῇ, “individually they placed bands upon his head and presented him accolades as if for an athletic champion” (Thucydides 4.121.1).

[ back ] 71. Currie 2002, esp. 37n133, 43. I am grateful to M. Flower for the recommendation some time ago that I expand this study to include Lysander (especially his ‘Nauarch’s Monument’ at Delphi) and other non-Athenians.

[ back ] 72. Plutarch Lysander 18.3–4, cited by Flower 1988:128 and n21, who notes that Plutarch explicitly references Duris of Samos on this subject; if the reference is acceptable at face value, then the literary evidence for this cult may be not only locally grounded but also much closer in time to the actual events (Flower 1988:132).

[ back ] 74. At Delphi, the most famous named examples from the archaic period are probably Croesus (see Herodotus 1.50.1–55.1) and the Alcmaeonids, who restored the Temple of Apollo after a fire in 548/7 BCE (the Alcmaeonid marble façade on that temple is dated to 514–505: see Bommelaer and Laroche 1991:20).

[ back ] 75. The Spartan general Pausanias, victor of Plataea, was forbidden to memorialize himself by name on the collective Greek monument to the Persian Wars at Delphi (Thucydides 1.132.2–3), and both the Miltiades statue group there (Pausanias 10.10.1–2; Bommelaer and Laroche 1991:110–111, with additional references) and the Callimachus monument on the Athenian Acropolis (Raubitschek 1940:53–56) seem to have been posthumous.

[ back ] 76. Plutarch Lysander 18.1; Pausanias 10.9.7–10. For a summary of the monument, see Bommelaer and Laroche 1991:108–109; on the problems of its reconstruction, see Vatin 1991:103–138; for the inscriptions on the statue bases, see Meiggs and Lewis 1969:287–290 no. 95 and Tod 1946:228–231 nos. 94–95; for an analysis of the potential impact of Lysander’s monument in its historical and physical context, see Crane 1996:177–179, 205–206 (making the comparison with Pausanias).

[ back ] 83. See the discussion by Flower 1988:132–133, with references. Rose’s understanding of C. Habicht’s argument provides additional insight (see Rose 1957:340): “[Habicht] holds, rightly as I believe, that the institution of worship of any human being has nothing to do with his character, but is invariably, in the case of the Greek cities, a response to some one specific act resulting in great benefit to the community in question, such as deliverance from a dangerous enemy, restoration of its constitution after a period of tyranny or foreign domination, or the like.”

[ back ] 84. McCauley 1993:245–248, 257–260 sees the escalation of heroic honors, especially in the course of the fifth century, as pointing towards Lysander’s reception (“It was already apparent in the time of Lysander that if athletes and other generals could become heroes, then the only thing left for an outstanding individual to do was to become a god,” 260), but also notes the other side of the transaction, citing (245–246) ancient perceptions that Lysander was a conscious manipulator of religious symbolism.

[ back ] 90. For other analyses of this echo, e.g. Baragwanath 2008:68–70 and nn41–42; Pelling 2006:93–94 and n51. On Herodotus’ deliberate establishment of interactions between the “authorial voice” of the historian and the content of the text, see Dewald 1987, esp. 153.

[ back ] 91. On literacy as a means for the construction of memory, see Shrimpton 1997:48–72, 88–91, 186–190; Thomas 1989, esp. 118–154; cf. also Derderian 2001, esp. 63–113.

[ back ] 94. Xenophon Agesilaus 11.7; Plutarch Agesilaus 2.2, both sources are cited by Flower 1988:127, who also mentions this story. On the (spurious) tradition of Alexander’s artistic ‘edict’ upon his own image, see the references collected by Stewart 1993:360–362; see also Stewart 2003:32.

[ back ] 97. An important formulation of Xenophon’s interest in leadership paradigms is Breitenbach 1967; see also Dillery 1995.

[ back ] 98. My reading of this passage is indebted to the interpretation of the epitaphios logos as an agonistic and historically contextualized genre by Derderian 2001, esp. 163–178, 182–185 (the latter specifically on the logos-ergon dichotomy); cf. also, as Derderian does, Loraux 1981.

[ back ] 99. For a summary of the ancient sources, see Marchant 1925: intro. xvii–xx; for more information, see Flower 1994:149–150.

[ back ] 100. See Pownall 2004:32–35 on the relationship between Xenophon’s Agesilaus and Isocrates’ Evagoras, referring on this topic (32n125) to Race 1987.

[ back ] 101. While this suggestion might be used to bolster the interpretation of the Anabasis as an apologetic work (recently on this issue, e.g. Rood 2004:322–326; and cf., in the same collection, Cawkwell 2004), I am not here attempting to engage with this particular problem.

[ back ] 104. Some of this material, particularly in section 2, first appeared in my dissertation (Ferrario 2006b), and I remain very grateful to the organizers, Nino Luraghi and Riccardo Vattuone, and to the other Bologna conference participants for the opportunity to explore these ideas in new ways. I would also like to thank Giovanni Parmeggiani for his editorial work and support.

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